


time is hard to kill since i met you

by bucketofrice



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, and kitchen-cleaning?, post-Sochi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 20:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16374575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketofrice/pseuds/bucketofrice
Summary: Tessa spring-cleans.





	time is hard to kill since i met you

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a departure from what I usually post, and I really don't know if I even know what it is, exactly. I can only blame my terrible sleeping schedule and wacky brain.
> 
> Also I might've fudged some timelines. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title (and the main inspiration for this) is "Little Numbers" by BOY. Please do give it a listen, it's a favourite of mine.

It’s half-past three on a Wednesday in late March, and she’s sitting at her kitchen counter, papers strewn about. She’s using it as a workstation — printouts and books and highlighters spread around, her laptop perched in the middle — because she feels like she’d be neglecting it if she didn’t use it for anything at all.

Never mind that its original intent had been to facilitate cooking, what, with the expansive Carrera marble and ready access to the sink. She’s not a cook though, so makeshift desk it is.

She runs her finger along the ridged edge of the worktop, sliding easily into the decorative groove, and frowns as it comes up dusty.

She rubs the dust away between her thumb and forefinger and sighs, shutting her computer and picking up the papers to sort them into neat stacks, chronologically and by date. She files them away into colour-coded folders and places that stack on top of her laptop, balances her pencil case on top of it all and brings the whole thing out to the sofa, where she sets it on a cushion, next to her messenger bag.

It’s the first leather one she’s ever owned; she bought it in the fall, right before the start of classes, because it fit a laptop and looked collegiate. Whatever that means. She’s not quite sure, she just remembers the satisfaction of slipping her brand-new folders and pens and pastel highlighters into the compartments, along with the textbooks and course readers she dutifully picked up from the university bookstore three days before the start of term.

Now, she runs her fingers against the cool metal of the buckles and thinks for a fleeting second about the hardshell carry-on suitcase and skate bag sitting in her hall closet.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, turning on her heel and going back to the kitchen.

Rummaging around in the cupboard under the sink, she quickly finds what she’d been looking for. She pulls out a spray bottle of marble surface cleaner and a microfibre cloth and sets them on the island before clearing it of the fruit bowl that currently contains two apples, three pears and half a bunch of bananas.

Her kitchen is drenched in a faintly flowery scent (it's essentially diluted dish soap with water, she's been told) when she sprays cleaner onto the marble, working it into the surface with sure strokes. She’s satisfied when she looks at the underside of the cloth and sees faint streaks of grey.

The floral scent isn’t overpowering, or overtly artificial. She’s made sure to only buy natural cleaning products — lots of vinegar and real lemon juice for her cabinets and appliances — because she doesn’t want to be adding any more chemicals to her house.

When she finishes cleaning the centre island, she continues on to the outer countertops, moving the toaster and coffee machine out of the way so she can get at every last surface in her kitchen. It’s calming, in a strange way, the rhythmic back and forth of wiping down smooth marble.

It strikes her as odd, that she’s so rarely done this, that’s she’s never luxuriated in a proper spring-cleaning. It’s fitting considering the time of year but then she remembers that normally, this is the time around or after Worlds and that always brings the cool-down and regroup and then the hectic race to see all their family members before they’re swept off on yet another tour.

She’s wiping down the faucet of her sink — she moved on to sink cleaner for this, lemon-scented and quite fruity — when she makes a mental image of her upcoming calendar and finds it free of skating obligations till Stars on Ice in May.

A year ago, after Sochi, when she told her mother she’d probably be living in this house full-time now, Kate Virtue had taken her to the store and they’d bought cleaning supplies for every nook and cranny of the place. Now, as she squats delicately before her open under-sink cupboard, she wonders if she should use the oven cleaner her mother had so highly recommended.

When she weighs the benefits of a clean oven (not that hers isn’t, with its lack of regular use) against her absolute lack of kitchen skills, she decides forgoing this particular pursuit is probably wise. She cleans the inside of the microwave instead, rearranges her cupboards and wipes down the shelves, before finally doing the same to her refrigerator.

In truth, none of them really needed the deep-clean she is currently subjecting them too, but by the time she’s mopping the kitchen floor she’s worked up a bit of a sweat, and well, if that hasn’t been one of the things she’s found satisfying so many times over the course of her life, she doesn't know what has.

She wipes her brow with the back of her hand and stretches her arms out, leaning the handle of the mop against the wall.

She wore leggings and a thin sweatshirt today, since it was still cool in the morning and she hadn’t planned on really seeing anyone. Well, not until later anyway.

The outfit had worked out surprisingly well for the impromptu cleaning session and she takes a cursory glance at the clock on her wall.

If she keeps moving at this pace, she might also be able to get the living room cleaned, and the hallway too.

The TV room has to wait for tomorrow anyway, she thinks, creating a mental list of what rooms she can tackle over the weekend, before she has to go back to class on Monday. It’ll be no use to clean the couch and coffee table only to pile greasy Chinese takeout on it hours afterward.

He’s supposed to come over later, for dinner and a planning session, because even though her mental calendar looks positively barren it’s still got to be filled later this spring, into the summer. And as much as she tried to prove the opposite during her _Year of Yes_ , she has to admit that they’re still infinitely more marketable together rather than alone.

And yes, there is also the small issue of missing his constant presence in her life and wondering idly if the persistent ache will ever go away — it’s like phantom pain, but rather than a missing limb, she has a missing person.

She’s startled out of her thoughts when the mop slips and hits the hardwood floor with a clatter.

Alright then.

She picks it up and stows it in the downstairs closet, pulling out the vacuum cleaner in its place. The incessant droning is a good tool with which to block out any unwanted thoughts, and she pushes and pulls it down the hall with newfound fervour.

Three hours later and the bottom floor of her house — except for the one room — is as clean as it was when she first finished decorating. She’s switched out some of the couch cushions in the living room and rearranged the art.

Satisfied, she places a hand on her hip and surveys her work. She even had enough time to hop in the shower and switch out her leggings for some black jeans and a cashmere pullover.

Still casual, since it’s just him, but also a bit sophisticated, not like she’s just walked out of practice and the rink. She’s a student now, an entrepreneur, an empowered woman. She’s got to look the part.

It’s half past six and the sun is setting. Her house is still empty even though he said he would be here thirty minutes ago. She’s read the same passage in her novel five times now and is still none the wiser regarding its plot.

Her phone sits next to her, and there are no missed texts, no missed calls.

She briefly considers calling him — she’s mildly worried that something terrible happened, like a car wreck or a death in the family — but then decides against it. If that were the case, there would be ten people (at least) trying to get her on the line. As she flips her phone so its face-down on the cushion, there are three memories coursing through the back of her mind.

One is terrible pain, and excruciating rehab, naive hope and two months of silence.

Two is misplaced loyalty, and heated arguments, stubborn perseverance and flaying each other open in closets all across the world.

Three is new beginnings, and regretful jealousy, insincere friendships and trying to be happy for her best friend while he unknowingly tears her apart.

It’s half past eight when she gives up. She makes herself poached eggs on toast because she’s nothing if not predictable, and after washing the dishes she looks at the TV room with a scowl.

She fluffs up the sofa cushions, brushes away the lint, dusts the television and the bookshelves and the other surfaces, Swiffers the floor and wipes down the coffee table before sliding it back in place. When she flicks off the light switch, it feels like she’s extinguishing more than just a bulb.

Four hours later, she’s taken a bath, watched Pride and Prejudice for what feels like the thousandth time, painted her fingernails and toes and checked her phone on at least a million separate occasions.

Still nothing.

She sighs, pulls out the notepad and pen on her bedside table and writes her to-do list for the next day. _Clean the upstairs floor, donate old clothing, finish highlighting the last chapter of psych reading._ She doesn’t make a note to check in with him.

At half past eleven, she falls into a fitful sleep.

It’s half past one in the morning — Thursday now, but still late March — when her phone finally pings.

It lights up with a new text, and a few seconds later the notification stops and the screen goes black again.

_soorry i didnt mean 2 forget_

_won happen again..meet me@ molly blooms?_

She’s fast asleep and doesn’t hear a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Hated it? Yell at me in the comments or on Tumblr @good-things-come-in-threes or Twitter @_bucketofrice.


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